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“
To
me
?
”
said
Mary
,
and
she
moved
toward
the
little
tree
softly
and
looked
up
.
“
Would
you
make
friends
with
me
?
”
she
said
to
the
robin
just
as
if
she
was
speaking
to
a
person
.
“
Would
you
?
”
And
she
did
not
say
it
either
in
her
hard
little
voice
or
in
her
imperious
Indian
voice
,
but
in
a
tone
so
soft
and
eager
and
coaxing
that
Ben
Weatherstaff
was
as
surprised
as
she
had
been
when
she
heard
him
whistle
.
“
Why
,
”
he
cried
out
,
“
tha
’
said
that
as
nice
an
’
human
as
if
tha
’
was
a
real
child
instead
of
a
sharp
old
woman
.
Tha
’
said
it
almost
like
Dickon
talks
to
his
wild
things
on
th
’
moor
.
”
“
Do
you
know
Dickon
?
”
Mary
asked
,
turning
round
rather
in
a
hurry
.
“
Everybody
knows
him
.
Dickon
’
s
wanderin
’
about
everywhere
.
Th
’
very
blackberries
an
’
heather
-
bells
knows
him
.
I
warrant
th
’
foxes
shows
him
where
their
cubs
lies
an
’
th
’
skylarks
doesn
’
t
hide
their
nests
from
him
.
”
Mary
would
have
liked
to
ask
some
more
questions
.
She
was
almost
as
curious
about
Dickon
as
she
was
about
the
deserted
garden
.
But
just
that
moment
the
robin
,
who
had
ended
his
song
,
gave
a
little
shake
of
his
wings
,
spread
them
and
flew
away
.
He
had
made
his
visit
and
had
other
things
to
do
.
“
He
has
flown
over
the
wall
!
”
Mary
cried
out
,
watching
him
.
“
He
has
flown
into
the
orchard
—
he
has
flown
across
the
other
wall
—
into
the
garden
where
there
is
no
door
!
”
“
He
lives
there
,
”
said
old
Ben
“
He
came
out
o
’
th
’
egg
there
.
If
he
’
s
courtin
’
,
he
’
s
makin
’
up
to
some
young
madam
of
a
robin
that
lives
among
th
’
old
rose
-
trees
there
.
”
“
Rose
-
trees
,
”
said
Mary
.
“
Are
there
rose
-
trees
?
”
